


Warrant

by Jac_Danvers



Category: Mean Girls (2004)
Genre: Burn Book Aftermath, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jac_Danvers/pseuds/Jac_Danvers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jill Norbury expected many things in her life, but never to have the police search her home for drugs. A story exploring just what happened when Ms. Norbury was accused of being a drug dealer in the burn book, and the implications of that on her career.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrant

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Mean Girls, though I quote it on a daily basis. Reviews and con crit are always greatly appreciated!

It would strike most people as odd, but my first thoughts when the police knocked on my weathered oak door and displayed the search warrant were not to cry or panic. I didn't even freak out, at least visibly. No, the first thing I did when they asked me to step outside was wish I had mowed my lawn. The lawn mower, which I bought second hand at a garage sale after the divorce, had blown a gasket a week and a half before, and I'd meant to borrow my neighbor's. Never happened. The unkempt lawn next to my disheveled, broken down home made me look even guiltier of my accused crime.

Drug dealer. I'd been accused of being many things in my life: a bitch (my ex-husband), a cheater (the jealous boys in my eighth grade math class who hated being beaten by a girl), a fabulous lover (okay, that one was me). But despite my faults- and I'll admit I have many- I never thought I'd be watching the police enter my house.

It's funny how things change. This morning I was a thirty-something divorcee who had a tendency for sarcasm, a crush on Pythagoras, and a shrine in my closet to Fibonacci. And now, because of a lie written in a book by some ridiculous teenage girls, I was about to be the next face on America's Most Wanted.

"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to step outside."

Ma'am? When had I become a ma'am?

The younger of the two police officers led me outside. He was young, fresh-faced, and muscular. Probably a year or so out of the academy. The other officer, older with a bulging doughnut belly, entered my house with one of the drug sniffing hounds.

"I have a few questions to ask you," the young guy- Officer Lavin, according to his badge- said.

"Shoot," I replied.

No, don't shoot. Shit, police men carry guns. _Stop making jokes, Sharon!_

The homemakers were emerging from their houses, curious at the commotion outside. Nothing exciting ever happened during the day, when their husbands were at work. I tried to ignore them. They were as bad as those girls- the Plastics, or whatever the student body calls them- feeding off of other people's misery, whispering, gossiping.

My eyes drifted through the crowd as I answered his questions mechanically. No I never sold drugs to students, yes I'm willing to take a drug test, yes I'm willing to go down to the station if the need be. The women were pointing, shooing their children inside their homes. I'd never be able to walk around again without this stigma hanging over my head.

"Thank you, Ms. Norbury," Officer Lavin said. "If it makes you feel any better, this investigation is just protocol. From what your character witnesses have said, no charges should be filed. But after the accusations about Mr. Carr turned out to be true, we had to investigate. I'm sure you understand."

I nodded. Of course I understood. My career, the one thing that wasn't taken in the divorce proceedings, was over. My reputation was ruined. And character witnesses wouldn't count for much when I was standing before the school board. Especially when said character witness was Principal Ron Duvall, known to many as my friend, and to me as my secret crush. Tenure or not, I was done. It wasn't difficult to understand at all.

The young officer and I stood outside for a good hour as the other officer searched the house. Five o'clock passed, and the men and women who held day jobs were returning home, slowing their vehicles to stare at me. _I might as well be the freekin' bearded lady, dancing around for the public,_ I thought, sighing.

The second officer finally emerged from my house, the drug dog meandering behind him, nose still buried in the ground. "The house is clear," he said to me as he approached. "Sorry for the inconvenience ma'am, but—"

"You had to make sure. I know. I understand," I snapped, ready for them to leave. He took the hint, and they helped the dog into the police car and drove away.

Now that the flashing lights and badges were gone, the neighbors lost interest. They returned to their homes, still whispering. Passing notes across fences like the kids in my class passed notes when I taught limits and integrals.

I felt exhausted, beaten down, and though the front door was wide open, I couldn't bring myself to reenter the house and see whatever mess the dog made. I sat down in the overgrown grass, observing that the only person left outside was Phillipa Reynolds, a nine year old going on sixteen, riding up and down the block on her scooter. She was the second coming of Regina George, well on her way to being both loved and hated by her classmates.

She screeched her scooter to a stop next to me. "What do you want?" I snapped, beyond caring that it was a child.

"Mommy said you sell crack. I told her you weren't cool enough to do that."

Mocked by a nine year old. Could this week get any worse?

"I mean, I don't know if you take drugs or not. You probably do. I mean the police don't just show up to _anyone's_ home. But you wouldn't sell them. You have to be cool to sell drugs," the precocious girl said.

I think that was the point when I officially decided I was never having children.

A car pulled up behind me, but I was too ambivalent and dejected too look up. Phillipa smirked. "I think you have a client," she said snarkily, before skipping back to her home.

I turned to see who had pulled up to my home. Ron Duvall was exiting his car, looking exhausted. Why was he here? Was he going to tell me I lost my job? That I was going to be arrested? Or was he going to suggest running away to Mexico, where there might be mean girls, but we'd never know what they were saying because we didn't speak the language.

I would be down with Mexico.

"I just left administration," he said softly, taking a seat next to me in the grass. He sat close, our knees touching. He probably didn't even realize it, but it was a comfort to me. Just knowing he was here, that he took the time out to deliver my fate to me personally.

"And?"

"They're gonna let you keep your job, pending the close of the police investigation. They were pretty understanding about the allegations in that book, all things considered. I think what happened with Coach Carr has them spooked. The board is going to give you paid leave until everything wraps up."

A ragged sigh escaped my throat, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I hadn't expected to get this emotional, not in front of people. I'd wanted to put on a brave face, show the upset and hurt teens at school that, even if people call you names, you don't have to let it affect you. Show them that they were better than Regina George and Cady Heron. Better than Gretchen and Karen. But the relief was flooding through me, relief that my life wasn't going to crash completely to the ground again, drove me to tears. I quickly wiped my eyes.

I felt Ron take my hand in his hand that wasn't afflicted with carpel tunnel syndrome. He squeezed gently. "You know, you can press charges against them. Or at least sue, for damages due to libel."

"We don't even know who wrote the book," I replied.

Yes we did. We both knew.

"We know who wrote that book," he said, filling in exactly what I'd been thinking. "Regina. Gretchen. Cady. Maybe Karen, though lord knows if she even has the ability to write coherent sentences."

I laughed bitterly. "What's the point, Ron? They're teenage girls, this is how they function. My high school had a Regina, I'm sure yours did too. And I was on the wrong side of their wrath then too. They grow out of it. Or like my high school mean girl, get knocked up a month after graduation, have three kids by the time your twenty, and work a dead-end job with a deadbeat husband. Karma's a bitch."

He shook his head. "If you're sure. I know a lot of the parents are talking about suing the girls, once they officially find out who wrote the book. Not sure that will actually get anywhere with it. But it'll be nice to see Regina taken down a few notches."

"Because you're terrified of her," I replied with the first genuine smile I'd given in a while.

"Maybe," he said, honestly. "Have you been back inside since they searched? Did they tear your place up?"

"I'm afraid to look. Not that I have much in there, but the officer was in there awhile."

Ron stood up. "Well, you can't sit out here all night. C'mon. I'll help you fix up in there, and we'll go get dinner. My treat. You've had a hell of a week."

"You don't have to do this."

(Translation: please don't get my hopes up. I have a thing for you, and after the week I had, I don't need to see my hopes get dashed into the ground again.)

"I know I don't have to, Shar." He smiled shyly, hands tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. "You coming?"

I nodded, and let him help me up. As we walked inside, he didn't let go of my hand.

Mean girls be damned, I was not going to let this get the best of me. And as I shut the oak door behind us, blocking out the overgrown lawn and neighbors peeking through the curtains, I knew everything was going to be ok.


End file.
